flora
Flora lets out a content little hum at the warmth pressed against either side of her, utterly unbothered by the heat. "Mmm, well," she murmurs, voice rich with affection. "I’ve got a dragon to help keep me cool." Her fingers massage softly against Danta’s temple, her smile audible in her tone. "As long as my house doesn’t burn down, I can handle your oven-ass body temperatures." (That is, until 2am when she's drowning in sweat beneath a pile of limbs—but that’s a problem for future Flora.)
But then Asta speaks—and what he says has her blinking once before her brows lift in mild surprise. "Wait, really?" She turns just enough to glance down at Danta for confirmation, her expression clearly skeptical and thoroughly intrigued. "You two are so well-oiled," she accuses lightly, "I assumed this was just...like...a Tuesday for you."
Her head tips back to rest once more against Asta’s shoulder, and her voice softens to something sweeter. "By which I mean you performed fantastically too."
Still, as the sounds of the party bleed through—cheers, distant glass breaking, someone yelling about winning a bet—Flora sighs and slowly starts to untangle herself. "Alright," she groans, melodramatic, "we should get cleaned up before someone comes looking." Not that the trio of them didn't paint an exquisite portrait of sin and satisfaction just as they were.
Padding toward the bar, she gathers a cloth and dips it into the canal water nearby, wiping the blood from her hand with care before stepping into her underwear and shorts, snugging them over her hips. Shirtless and unhurried, she picks up her corset and twirls it around one finger as she saunters back toward the couch. "Alright, gentlemen," she purrs, "would one of you be so kind?"
But then Asta speaks—and what he says has her blinking once before her brows lift in mild surprise. "Wait, really?" She turns just enough to glance down at Danta for confirmation, her expression clearly skeptical and thoroughly intrigued. "You two are so well-oiled," she accuses lightly, "I assumed this was just...like...a Tuesday for you."
Her head tips back to rest once more against Asta’s shoulder, and her voice softens to something sweeter. "By which I mean you performed fantastically too."
Still, as the sounds of the party bleed through—cheers, distant glass breaking, someone yelling about winning a bet—Flora sighs and slowly starts to untangle herself. "Alright," she groans, melodramatic, "we should get cleaned up before someone comes looking." Not that the trio of them didn't paint an exquisite portrait of sin and satisfaction just as they were.
Padding toward the bar, she gathers a cloth and dips it into the canal water nearby, wiping the blood from her hand with care before stepping into her underwear and shorts, snugging them over her hips. Shirtless and unhurried, she picks up her corset and twirls it around one finger as she saunters back toward the couch. "Alright, gentlemen," she purrs, "would one of you be so kind?"
We can't make any promises now can we babe?
But you can make me a drink.
But you can make me a drink.
